Centigrade & Centimeters
by Nostalgian
Summary: PWP, essentially. America and England are trying out a new thing, which triggers England but eventuates in a safeword fail. 2-part. Cover art credit to EllaroseC
1. Centigrade

All works belong to their respective owners.

**Author's Note:** De-anon from Kinkmeme.

Prompt was the use of a safeword failing. I went for what is essentially a mixture of heatplay and breathplay, or rather, sauna, blind-fold. You know. My third attempt at pr0n, and none too good, and the mood changes drastically all over it, but it should be alright.

Part two involves comfort, this is part one and is the scenario set-up.

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><p><em><strong>Centigrade, and Centimetres.<strong>_

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><p>Real estate, now that England thinks about it, has something absolutely right: it's all about location. If it wasn't all about location, then this probably wouldn't count as something new, and even then, he'd been a bit dubious.<p>

A sauna? Okay, and?

_What's your point, America, _he'd said.

Because a simple change of location shouldn't _change_ things this much. Because getting pinned in America's bed, in his bed, on the couch, in a car, hell – in a public toilet, is the same as getting pinned just about anywhere else. If we're drawing parallels, maybe the breakfast table; horizontal, hard surface under him, odd level from the ground, weird burning smell from the kitchen?

But no, location is dead important, and the sauna is completely different.

The air is dry and swollen, scraping his throat, and it's _painful_, actually _painful_ to breathe. Not to mention the smell, what is it, whatever it is, it's everywhere, _everywhere_. And the heat. The Heat. It's crawling inside his skin, isn't it?

Twisting against the soft wood of the lower-bench, green eyes alert, and eyelashes crackling in the dry, thickened girth of the heat, England gave a harsh, raspy pant, fingers clenched tightly around Texas.

_Here,_ America had said, and pressed the folded glasses into England's fingers, gently curling them around the cool metal. _Gets pretty dry in there, _America had explained,_ y'know, so if you need to safeword and can't manage to say it, just toss em on the floor._

Their safeword was stars-and-stripes.

America had been very persuasive in his reasons why it should be the safe word (persuasive like a tongue sloppily slid down England's ear – was it meant to be a turn on or off? Oh god, what was it _doing_? OhgodOhgod_Ohgod_!)

America pulled back, carefully tipping England's head – fingers gentle – and met England's eyes, gauging the expression. England clawed for air, chest heaving against America's fingertips, rib cage straining in the dense, dry heat; but he was more than fine, struggling in the temperature, and hair damp in his gleaming green eyes, delicate jade, the colour flushed with increased blood vessels, and pupils wide like a rabbit in headlights; cat in the dark. America's querying, checking, careful expression tumbled into a smirk. A single, soft thumb away of England's bangs, and then America leant down to nip sharply at the corner of England's soft mouth.

Bites slithered down the side of his jaw; hard on the taunt muscles of his neck; angry reddening shade on his collar bone, and America's teeth closed on the salty, flicker pulse at his neck, scraping and grazing and pressurizing – pressure up, and up and up.

Step by step, because England can't quite fall off the deep end. Can't quite kick himself under that quickly. And this is something new.

America rechecks England's eyes once more, glancing up from his crouch over England's chest.

England pants and shivers, breath mewing thinly.

America squeezed his eyes shut tightly, _Fuck, He __**wants**__ it_, comes the single thought, before America pulls away from how much he just wants to tell England that he's beautiful, so, so beautiful when he's like this – so, so beautiful that he lets himself get like this around America – for America – so, so, intensely beautiful that he lets America be with him like this.

America bottled up that thought, that crowd of emotion, and pushed England's head to the wood again. To the side, the heel of America's hand holding England's cheek to the bench, and he bites harder this time. Scratching England's chest in his haste to pinch at England's chest, and his fingers are tight on England's right nipple, tighten;

And there it is – England hissed and moaned and writhed; snapping their hips together in a jarring thrust. Ground, and gave a half-moan against the wood.

America's already there, pointy and sharp, biting and _squeezing_ and tight in all those lovely ways – and its so, too hot and warm and overpoweringly searing. Every line of contact between them is scalding; burning almost. A flash of America's nails ragged down his chest is scorching his skin, and the sweat of America and England seeps like vinegar into the faint scratch, making it feel crimson.

_Owch,_ is the dull thought.

Swept past, by America locking England's hips with a press of his knees, one grinding too fast and sharp and sudden into England's crotch. England fought to sit up, but America yanked him down by the hair –

England yelped, wriggled, and eyes opened wide. Green eyes against blue, and England can feel a swelling swarm of something, and it's not pleasure. Timidly, he tightened his grip on the glasses – where is he? Sauna. Yeah. And then America's too-large hand is sliding across his eyes, sweaty and damp and too-large. Too dark.

There's a too-large grind between his legs, against him, and England gave a twitch – a tremble? Something between them.

_It's dark,_ is the thought.

Dark means too hot, and searing, sizzling, tripping warmth, scored into his skin with scratches. Dark means he can feel the heavy shape against him – America, not shape, and he forces himself to coherence. Swallowed about the dry, irritation of his throat. Coughed and hacked, juddered against shape – America – and the air is too hot.

_Oh god,_ And he's being moved, adjusted, and his legs are limp with sweat as he's moved. Where is he?

He's in too hot, too dark, too large, too _much_.

With a dry, dense cry, he gave a full on struggle. Trying to claw and roll out of the touch, but the too large pulled him, first soft and then strength is applie – _it's America, America,_ - America applies his strength, pushing and pulling England from the edge.

Too much shape, and damp, muffled skin pressure is being pushed down until the air in England's chest bubbled up, choking out of him in a spittle of coughs. Too much too little, and he gasped for air, _fuckfuckfuck_. He's moved again, up into the risen heat and another gulp of air is too much, he can't even keep the air down and it's too dark and he can't get out from under the too much heat and weight of the darkness. Sweaty, too big darkness.

He struggles harder, thrashing now – and bites, scratches, burning fingernails are pulled down his body, leaving him shaking and exposed, panting, whimpering. He can feel it, but it's far – the sting of acid on his skin, sensitive, too sensitive, too dark, sensitive, is all that he can feel, and he thrashed against the new pain, fingers clenching around something hot and hard and else in his hand. Pushed down, into the cool-hot wood (it's so hot, and damp and hot and dark) and the thumb of the hand over his eyes, stifling his vision in damp and engulfing black heat, is hooked in his mouth. What does the growing, crowding heat _want_?

A strangled moan erupts from somewhere in his chest, wriggling past his dry throat and into the air and he clutches tighter on the hard metal in his hand. Clinging, and shuddering, laid bare against the hotness. It's too hot, _it's too hot_!

His legs are nudged apart hard, and something clicked; whimpering, whining, throat sore and skin flushed with the too much heat (he feels like he's burning up; charred to a crisp) England spread his legs wider. Maybe it'll go away if he just opens and splays himself bare?

And slick pressure now, slicker and more heated, and England's groaning, voice tight and coiled in his chest; trying not to anger the heat and toohot and darkness. The thumb hooked in his mouth angles and there's another pressure right over his mouth, something wet in his mouth, and he's so dry and heated, that he tongues it right back. Getting slobber all over his face, too hot, too hot. The tongue in his mouth is too hot, and the teeth that graze his lips bruise too hard. Everything is just _too_ something.

There's another heat, burning and stretching and pulling and splitting, stinging that rushes up his spine from his hips, and he tries to spread his legs further apart. Let _it._

His voice is steely, hot like metal in his neck, and he can't breathe – can't even swallow – around the wail that waits there. Instead England bit down on it, shut his eyes even tighter, and, shaking like a dry, skeleton of a leaf, pressed himself into the wood, letting the invading pressure further in.

America stopped.

Listening, not to England's whines and moans, but to a cracking sound, as England's tightened fingers manage to snap the bridge of his glasses in two. Halfway pressed into England's body, and skin flushed from exertion and the hot air of the sauna, he felt his entire body go cold with a _horrible_ premonition. England gave another stifled whimper, and America was startled back into action, pulling his hand sharply away from England's eyes – they're shut so tightly, and now England's biting his lip, shaking and apparently unable to stop.

"England?" No reply. "S…Stars and stripes." America stammered out, eyes blown wide with panic.

The sweat felt like melting ice as it ran down America's legs, and he rested his weight on his palms, not putting any of it on the shivery England. No response, aside from the continuous whirring whimpers. The whimpers didn't spike up or alter – a single, unstopping noise. And two halves of a pair of glasses clenched in between his pale, clenched fist.

"E-England?" America tried again, gently touching his knuckles to England's cheek, and when England shied away from the soft, caring touch, America gulped audibly. Pulled back as though he'd be whipped between the shoulder blades, and sitting up, pulled England (unresisting, noise rising in pitch, and eyes still clamped shut) into his arms. "England, babe," America stroked gently at England's trembling arms and back, fitting England into his arms, as he quickly scooted to the next level down. "Come on." He murmured, gently unfurling England's fingers from the two pieces of Texas; barely noticing as they clattered to the bench, his gaze lodged on the deep, uncomfortable flush on England's face, and the way it fell down his neck, down his chest, blossomed in the curve of his throat, making the scratch-marks and bite-marks difficult to discern and finally pooled in a long line America had made with his nail across England's side.

"Sweetie," America reached to the side, looking for the water bottle he'd brought with him, and England gave another shudder. America pressed the water bottle quickly to England's forehead, and then poured a small palmful of it into his hand and flicked it on England's face. "It's'kay."

Guilt had exploded, crawling and clawing in America's stomach, somewhere in his chest. The emotion snarled and spread through his nerves and along his skin, like a physical thing, and America was soon shaking as hard as England. Despite this, he swallowed around the obstructing, horrible, _persistent_ guilt, and mumbled, stumbling across the words: "Honey, sweetheart, gorgeous; can you open your eyes." _Please, I need you to look at me._

America pressed the water bottle back against England's forehead, and the slighter man gave a moan of relief, pressing into the cool container, eyelashes fluttering slightly. His face is still that same uncomfortably bright colour, and England is all but nuzzling the water container. America gave another swallow, guilt thickening and congealing somewhere in between his ribs. "Right! It's too warm in here!" America squawked suddenly, all but throwing the water bottle to the side, and England gave an uncomfortable _nrrh_. America bit his lip, but jumped to his feet and kicking the door open (and off its hinges) jogged, trying hard not to run, and promptly plunged into the cold water of the pool.

With a quick kick of his legs, America pulled them both up into the air, and England's arms wrapped tightly around America's neck, clinging on for dear life, and shivering in the temperature shock. "A-Amer'i-?" Voice raspy, and then England gave a hiccough, shuddered against America and, pulled back, hands curling on America's chest. Green eyes flared wide, but coherent, and alert.

And then England gave an odd mewling sound, curled against America, and took deep, shuddery gasps of air, breathing harshly and shallowly, hyperventilating, until his head dizzily flopped against the crook of America's neck. America stroked at England's shoulders, heart hammering, and the guilt bubbling helplessly in the pit of his stomach – he'd never be hungry ever again, or at least for a week. Numbly, he continued to stroke at England's cooling skin, feeling his breath hitch and tumble, and the constant, frightened (_frightened, panicked_; America can't bite back the self-loathing he feels; _terrified, scared_; he caused this.) drum of his heart that American can feel thud against his front. Mile an hour beats. Clunking and rattling against his chest sharply, he feels England's pulse _race_.

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><p><strong>May your quills be ever sharp.<strong>


	2. Centimeters

All works belong to their respective owners.

**Author's Note:** Part Two~

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><p><em><strong>Centimeters, and Centigrade.<strong>_

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><p>Breath still a fumble of air and hiccoughs, quick jumps and snatched, gulped pants, England gave America a quiet nuzzle, and blinked. Eyelashes brushed against America's neck, and America shifted his hands, one holding England up more securely, and the other snared in his hair. "You back baby?" America asked hopefully, hooking his fingers deep into the scraggly, dripping locks, and rubbed the pads of his fingers softly on England's scalp. The hitching breath cut off, and England held still, not even breathing, for an agonizing amount of time. Long enough for America to panic again, "Baby?"<p>

"Thirsty." England croaked. "Did y' throw me i' the _pool_?"

At least England was okay enough to actually sound a bit insulted, but now the hitching shakes were turning into long joined together shivers.

"Thirsty, 'kay. I can fix that." England's shivers were pretty bad. "Are you cold?" America nudged England, holding England carefully with both hands as he cut through the water slowly, feet slipping lightly on the tiles under the water. The water slopped at his sides, gurgling, and he focused on keeping as much of England out of the water as possible, even as the poolwater lapped at his side. "Kitten?" America tried to turn his head to look at England, but the only thing visible was hair darkened with water. "Sweetie?" America gently slid over to the poolside, and set England on the low edge. Limply England's hands dropped to the ground, and his head dropped to his chest, eyes obscured.

That horrible aching feeling where it felt like America's heart was nothing but a bundle of tightened knots.

"Arthur," America shoved the imploding, guilty feeling to the other side of his shakey, but brave smile. Cupping one hand gently under England's chin, as the other settled on the pool edge, twitching forward to brush England's hand. No response. America tilted England's head up very carefully, and was surprised by England snapping it up so fast it was almost audible. America almost flinched away; had he used too much strength? No, he'd scarcely touched Arthur. The slightest pressure. America blew a puff of air in England's face accidentally, as he tried to find the most heroic thing to say. "Um." England was staring at him, with huge eyes, pupils as wide as begging bowls, looking for all the world like a terrified rabbit at the other end of a musket. "Sorry I threw us into the swimming pool."

_That – that really wasn't it,_ America cursed angrily. _Come on Al, that's not the right thing to say at all…_

England blinked. Confused.

"Babe, you weren't responding," America slurred onwards anyway. "And you were really overheated, so, uhm, well." He dropped his other hand away from England's face. "Please." Voice lower than a whisper. "Don't look at me like-" America cut off, staring downwards again.

America was beating himself up - England gave another dull blink. On some level he was sure he'd normally do something about it, but it was so hard to focus on anything except his scratchy throat, and the prickling shivers that ran up his spine. Hickory dickory dock, and another shiver. He couldn't really feel cold – just smooth, and clean, all over.

It was all he could manage to choke out a raspy plea for water.

Jerking his head back up, America pushed away from the side, and clambered out next to England, hurriedly tripping over a mouthful of cheery (falsely so) words, even as he very gracefully shook away the water like a dog. Jogging back to the sauna, America scrabbled about the floor and seized the water bottle. With barely the presence of mind to slam the sauna shut, he jogged back to England, and with a single athletic, worried movement, promptly slid down beside England, shoving the water bottle at him.

America stared, so focused it was almost violent, as England fiddled with the cap, and the taller nation twitched all over, almost reaching forward to do it for England. Instead, he kept a respectful distance, and waited for England to do it himself. England wasn't an invalid; England wouldn't appreciate America behaving like a clucking mother hen.

Watched until the first shaking gulp made its way down England's throat, after a few false starts where England only spluttered and coughed. America rubbed England's back, until England had a few mouthful of water, before jumping to his feet and darting off to find a towel and draped it about England's shoulders.

England twisted to look up at America with another open, unreadable face.

Kneeling down next to England, America moved forward to tap his forehead against England's, but thought better of it at the last moment. Stared out across the pool, face red with unraveling dismay.

In response, England looked at the water bottle for a few long seconds, and then at America's unreachable gaze.

Setting the bottle to the side, with brittle joints and – England gritted his teeth at himself – unreasonably slow movements, England tapped America on the chest twice. America shivered in response as though he'd had an electric shock, England's fingers a cattle prod to his chest. He looked round at England's firmer expression. "America," England didn't know what he was asking for, mind still a clumsy, cumbersome thing. "…talk to me?"

America swallowed hard. "No, it's nothing."

"You're hurting." England murmured, still uncertain, but green eyes clearing with each word.

Blue eyes widened, and mouth opened, working and choking on a bundle of anxiety, guilt and self-hatred.

"This isn't about me!" America finally blurted out past the choking words.

"Alfred," England said firmly, fingers clenching tightly on America's bare collarbone, and America gave another shiver – the movement barely perceptible. "There are _two_ of us here."

England could feel America's shiver, and see the rise of shoulders, as America sucked his breath in sharply. England pulled his legs quickly out of the water, and threw himself against America's chest, murmuring a soft mess of reassurance, petnames, and rubbing America's hair, as he pulled the younger nation's head to press in at his chest. Gently nudged America's ear against England's tickertape heartbeat. Hoping the solid hum of his heart would help.

Gently, England rocked them, humming and mumbling and probably not even managing to speak his own language. Not in any recognizable form. Instead, he blurred his noises and whispered wordless, unformable things that rebelled against languages and definitions. Little sounds of reassurance and love.

"Love, love, love, love," England finally said clearly, curling his fingers at the back of America's neck and folding them neatly. "Please, please – I love you – talk to me; I would do anything to ease your distress." America gulped greedily for air, and shivered against England, for only a second.

"What _happened_?" America pulled away from England, large hands gripping at England's shoulders, eyes a bit too bright, and England held his ground and breath steady. Searched, confused, for the actual reasons.

Just that _dark, terrifying dark, damp, large heat upon him and crawling through each pore of his skin_.

"Just…too hot." England tried to explain; hell, he tried to remember exactly _what_ had gone wrong. "I didn't expect – dark, and – my head, I was somewhere else, or – hot, and couldn't see-"

America chewed his lips; _I __**covered**__ his eyes trying something new? What am I? Stupid?_

"I couldn't think clearly – too hot – I didn't know where I was or…"

"You… responded." America mumbled in the long pause England left hanging in the air. "I'm sorry, I thought, y'know… that…" _That you were enjoying yourself._

England didn't say anything, weighed his words up and measured them, and when America tried to talk, he squirmed, covering America's mouth with his fingers. America didn't try to talk after that.

"Didn't know who, only they… wanted, I- scared… not to fight," England stared off across the pool, trying to marvel at the reflections instead of whatever explanation he had for his response. "You're so strong." _I was scared; I'd have done anything._ America jerked away from England, almost falling back, and England swallowed up the memories with a quick narrowing of his eyes and dubious expression. "Don't overreact so much." _Please._

"But I could have been anyone!" America protested, horrified. "As far as you knew, I could have been- been a donkey! Or or or _France_!"

"A Donk-" England had to start again at the second example. "_Francis_? But you _like_ Francis!" England protested; America did get along reasonably well with France, and despite the continental nation being somewhat (see: very.) lecherous, it was still a weird example.

"But you don't!" America wailed in explanation, fists balled up, and the beginning of tears in his eyes; it wasn't about Francis.

"But I like you." England crept back over to America, careful not to startle him.

"I- god, you- I _raped_ you." America backed away, scooting away from England, actually crying at this point.

"I wouldn't go that far-"

"You weren't giving willing consent!"

"I still wouldn't go that far, no." England repeated, fiercely darting into America's space, and pinning him with determined hands on America's strong shoulders. "You're _brilliant_." England said, trilling the r as he always did when struck by an emotion he could only express with a funny choice of words, delicately laced and sewn together, or blurted out of him like a sneeze.

"I _raped_ you." America whispered hollowly, a few splashes of tears on his cheeks, and blue eyes thoroughly dull.

England seized America's face, and with a economic, but caring flick of his fingers, thumbed the tears tracking America's face away, and rushed his lips against America's, pressing and pushing them neatly together. Even with America shaking, but otherwise frozen to the spot. England drew back, kissed again from another angle, shoved his tongue into America's slack, surprised mouth, swirled it about once. Ran it across bright teeth and the roof of America's mouth before pulling away, panting again, shaking his head slightly to dispel the saliva between them.

"I didn't-" England gave a pant. "Ask you. D-" He was horribly out of breath. "Did I?" America shook his head, eyes an exposed, shocked pair of blue puddles. They were even damp and bright. England sucked in a gasp of air. "You w-weren't willing – too quick – was it bad?"

"No." America murmured. "But there's such thing as rape in a relationship and-"

"Shut up!" England snarled a little wildly and it occurred to America that England was in thick denial about what had happened.

Guilt, too, too much guilt. Thick. Choking. America swallowed.

"Arthur, ssh." America brushed England's drying, damp bangs away from his face, and bit his lip. "I'm sorry a-"

"Don't!" England cried again, pushed America back down with a hammer of his hands. Not hard enough to injure, but hard enough to hurt. "I don't know what it was, but it was _not_ rape."

America lay there, staring up at England, lost and expression too heavy for his face. "Baby…"

"I _wanted_ you." England hissed, squeezing his eyes tight, and trying to curl into himself, even crouching over America. "Whenever I remembered it was you, it was okay." He ground it out, each memory a thread he had to peel away. "I _want_ you."

Silence fell between them, and finally England opened one green eye to look down at America, who gazed up at him, as if looking for directions. "Al?" England prompted.

"I really want to kiss you," America whispered. "Like so damn much." He paused, flushed. "C-can I?"

"Don't ask permission." England managed weakly, but still America didn't move. With a tired, affectionate sigh, England sat back on America's stomach, and gestured for America to sit up, and dutifully the younger nation leant up on his elbows. "I really want to kiss you," England said, and then added even as euphoria spread over America's face – as it always did whenever England admitted that, like it was something to marvel at. "Back." England eyed America for a few daring moments, and then, gingerly, nervously, America leaned forward and pressed gently against England, mouth-to-mouth.

And England kissed him back, pulling America with him as he searched for a good angle, licking along America's lips. America's entire body shivered under England, but he opened his mouth. Still reserved, England kissed him with an ever-increasing enthusiasm until America responded _openly_.

Finally pulling away with a huff, England caught his breath, his hands pressed flushly on America's chest, coiling and stroking at America. "Bedroom." England mumbled, looking down.

He didn't want America on the hard ground by the pool, with only a discarded towel to the side and a forgotten water bottle next to them.

He wanted America on the expanse of a too-big bed (even for Alfred and his everywhere limbs) with too-crisp white sheets curling about them. A little nest of love. Homely, even. Too much lube, and too much gentleness, and too much plain, open love.

Looking each other _in_ the eyes.

(_Water was a terrible lubricant anyways, coagulant probably,_ England added as an afterthought.)

America nodded, and England slipped off America, almost falling in the pool, but only knocking the water bottle in. America pulled England up to his feet, and stared at him levelly for a few seconds.

"I want to see your eyes." America decided quietly.

With the choice between kissing America senseless and putting a spanner in the plain and open lovemaking idea, or trotting away, giving America the best over-the-shoulder _that look_ he could manage under the circumstances, England went for the second option. America blushed with a remarkably shyness at England's clumsy, albeit heartfelt _come hither_ eyes, and darted after England.

There was no doubt America wanted to pull England up into his arms, and carry him up the stairs, but reticence held America back again, and in the end his hand rested on England's hip, but made no bid to grab. England bit the inside of his cheek, eyes a flicker of pain; America was still too nervy and upset.

England slowed, pressing his body against America's for as long as he could, even when America jumped. The hand on his waist tightened reflexively, but let go too soon, _too quick_. Gently, England brushed his hand over America's, caught it as America flinched and pulled his lover gently up the stairs.

_When did we get inside?_ America's mind mumbled, too caught on overthinking every single flutter of England's eyelashes, let alone grabbing America by the hand.

"Ssh, ssh, ssh," England reassured, twisting round, and backing into the bedroom door, both hands on America's now, and with infinite affection, pulled America after him into the room. "Everything's okay."

The bed hit the back of England's legs, and he flopped back on it, wriggling up and over the bed, pulling America ever-insistently after him.

And then, crouching over England, America stopped, amongst bunched, and crisp white bedding, on the soft mattress, blue eyes stained with fear. England ran his palms along America's arms, and made another shushing noise, and what might have been a 'there, there'. Patiently, England's hands ran down again to America's hands, and peeled one away from where America had begun to grip the sheets under them in what might have been terror – which of course, America would deny. England pulled the hand along his stomach, and settled it over his heart; let the thrum-hum-hum slide into America's fingertips.

"You make my heart race," England sighed, half-laughing at the corny statement. America and his Hollywood. England and his Courtly Love. "Like the sound of rain. Like sparrow wings. Make me spout poetic crap."

"It's not crap." America whispered, unable to hide adoration. Strange sentences stitched and tied together so carefully; the odd patterns of nouns and verbs, meticulously, and openly selected, that was half the affection. The effort, the choices. England's choice to pull words from halfway across the dictionary and etymology together to try and fail to clearly say _I love you_.

And then hands raised again to pull America down to kiss him. America gave a shuddery groan, pressed close; chest to chest and heartbeat against heartbeat, hand sliding away across England's side. Slide over again, and rubbed the tiniest circle on England's hipbone, and flickered fingertips over his ribcage. England carded his hands in America's hair, finding a handhold, and arching against him, panting a gasp into America's mouth, tiny laugh as the brush on his side tickled, and America gave another tiny moan, alongside England's much louder, surer one.

With another jarring stop, America tried to pull away, and England pulled America – softly, sweetly, but firmly – back to him.

"How can you bear to have me touch you?" The blue-eyed nation squeezed the words out, even as they came cutting up his throat, knives in his lungs, and sharp on his tongue; like he'd bitten it. Bitten it clean off. So much guilt, fear and unhappiness.

"I don't know how I bear you to _not_ touch me." England breathed the words into the curve of America's neck, kissed at the dip of his throat, and ran his smooth, but calloused palms across America's diaphragm. "I exist through the skin of you; live where you touch me."

"That's so weird." America gave the tiniest, scaredest laugh, though scaredest was almost certainly not a word, and his body trembled with a quick draw of breath, and England could feel it in his hands.

Indelicately, England slid his hands lower, brushing along America's hip, and wriggled slightly; America _was_ hard. Delicately, he didn't mention it, even as America winced, and clearly knew that England knew, and England knew he knew that he knew. Knew.

Knew the confirmation of America's desire filled his body with a melting, liquid heat, and it spilled out his mouth in a long, arching, tremulous moan.

America's eyes widened, and he pulled away again; this time England let him, green eyes sparkling with a very exact _knew_. America wanted him, and would be back, and sure enough, America curled back over England, kissing him with more fierceness on the mouth than before. Licked the corner of it as he slid away, and scattered a kiss on England's jaw. Then another, down his neck, and against his chest.

England fisted his hands in America's hair, huffed and panted, and America mumbled a fistful of words, none joined together, just an armful of emotion.

"Christ, you – love, Arthur – god, you're so," Swallow, tense. "I love, oh, you."

"I love you too." England laughed, laugh trembling in the air, and shivering with each kiss America left over his sternum, heart, light stripe of a lick over his left nipple, slightest brush to the right, and another moan. Love blending into pleasure and lust. Still mostly love, when America _swears_ and all it is, is a sharp, sharp _love you so, too, so, too much_.

Hand tapping out to the side, and scratching at the drawer, clumsy with desire, England dug about for some lubricant, brow furrowing and expression incredibly serious, so serious, that America giggled, and nuzzled his nose against England's, before smoothly reaching over. "It's'kay, I'll get it." And then, lost again, America looked down at the translucent pool of lubricant in his cupped palm. Unable to move, sitting on his heels, before his eyes flicked up to England, impossibly open.

And England waited, rubbed a comforting hand on whatever part of America he could reach; elbow, waist, stomach. Until, shakily, America smiled, teeth flashing in the nervous gesture. "You okay?" England asked softly.

"Are _you_?" America asked back, eyes hardening very slightly.

"That depends."

"On what?" America's voice jerked about like a puppet on a string; the answer in complete control of most of his feelings right at that moment.

"Are you okay?"

America gave England a quizzical look. "Are you?"

England clicked his tongue in disapproval, now glowering up at America, and wriggled down until his erection pressed against America's stomach. "I'm _fine_." England growled, now actively rubbing against America, trying to apply pressure to America, who struggled not to gasp, or whimper.

"Right, right," America sighed patiently, tolerantly – probably lovingly, if not for his amused eyeroll, that quickly turned into a pleasured one, his toes curling. "_Ahn_- wait." America blinked down at England. "Did you wanna top or bottom?" Then hastily added: "I don't mind; it's up to you tonight babe." England was measuring out a perfect reply, when America went a put his foot in his mouth, down his throat and choked noisily, and messily on it. Metaphorically speaking. "Because I can totally take it, I mean, really I don't think you'd want me at all inside you for a bit, and that's totally cool and I'm just saying I'm all down and good with you inside me, yeah. Anything you want doll, anything-"

"I want you to shut up." England interrupted, reaching up to push America's two hands together. "Warm up that stuff, and do something manly and decisive." America pulled a face.

"I'm just worried about-"

England's eyes softened, even as he interrupted and called America a 'wet cardigan knitted by his mam'. America's eyes echoed the softness with his prim response that England was known for his knitting, and somehow, one of America's (_idiot boy_, England supposed at a later point) fingers found its ways inside England as America cheerily asked England if – later – he could be shown how to do a basic pearl stitch. "Yeah, sure," England panted distractedly, somewhere in his brain registering that knitting was a highly unsexy topic to discuss whilst America was experimentally curling a finger up England's (_awesome_, America insisted) ass. Most of his brain was overtaken by simple registration of physical activity – finger, ass, curling, too much lube, he'd thought as much, oh. _Oh_. _OhOhOhOhhhh_.

England writhed as America slid the finger out, and pushed it back in to the second and more fierce resistance. America half-giggled, eyes looking far too innocent and filled with an almost childlike wonder, even as he curled a spare hand, sticky with unused lube on England's chest to steady himself as he pulled his finger out once again – a crack of an expletive from England, and America added another finger. England's voice cracked with the slightest grain of pain and they stopped.

England forced his eyes open, green against blue, and America stared dully down at England, frightened, and nervous and England's entire body shuddering around America's two pointer fingers, even as his eyes were just as frightened, just as nervous.

"Gorgeous," America breathed, clumsy, but not interested in tact. Not at this point. "I'm hurting you."

"_Yess_," England hissed.

"You're really tense." America couldn't keep his voice completely level, but he was trying. "Maybe we shouldn't."

"N-no – want," Pant, force the words out. England's eyes fluttered shut. "J-just… talk… talk to me."

"What about?"

England's eyes blared angrily open, unable to repress the mixture of fear that manifested in furious pride. The impossible lust sitting coiled in his stomach did not help matters. "About whatever you want!" And America shifted his hand from England's chest down a little lower, wrapping around him. England shivered, breath hitched, tension slid a little looser.

"I love you, i-is that enough?" America stammered, for some reason reaching for a heart-to-heart at a terrible moment in time, drawing his fingers back, and then pushing them in again and stretching, scissoring them slowly and carefully, other hand finding a half-rhythm to the preparation. "To justify – I screwed up so bad-"

"We." England gasped out. "We screwed uh-hah-_hah_." England's interruption was interrupted itself by a few sharp inhales, and then a long guttural moan; America had managed to brush England's prostrate, drawing pleasure out of the nerve bundle.

"Fine." America couldn't help but smile a little as England moaned and writhed under him, a jellied mass of arousal. "We screwed up, is it enough? Is… love enough fo-"

"Love's enough!" England snapped, trying to grab America by the hair, and in arguably defense, America gave England another jerk of his fingers, and England flopped back, keening with as much restraint as he could find, but unable to stop the sharp, tiny, squeaking cries.

"Aww, you're cute when you chirrup." America sighed, and pressed a third finger in, even as he curled over England, kissing him snugly on the mouth, and smiling as England moaned around the curve of his lips. America pushed down at England, as the moan tailed off, and slid his tongue ungracefully into England's mouth, licking along the tongue within, and shoving down on it playfully. England's attempts to fight back entirely stopped by several good shoves of America's hand, and twitch of his fingers on England's cock.

And England responded by reaching after America's own groin, scraping and scrabbling after it, mewling piteously into the kiss, before biting down on America's tongue with enough bite to let England coil his fingers round America. America groaned vividly into England's mouth in reply. And England's fingers scrambled for the lubricant America had left to the side – if needed, if wanted – and his fingers all but choke it. Too much lube, too many sheets, too much bed, and England dragged his slick fingers across America, America shaking like a skeleton leaf in a gale.

"I want you…" England snarled out, teeth bared, and eyes flushed with something far closer to love. Tempered by desire, but only somewhat. England wants a lot more, and with more complexity than America's physical response; he craved America's peace, contentment, trust. With a muffled groan that splays somewhere between Arthur, a cuss, and a purr of encouragement, America drew his hands away, leaving them sticky on England's hip bones and slid, all but glid home. Slowly, patiently, smoothly, and England rocked under America, moaning up at America, the sounds reverberating and dancing on the ceiling.

America stared at England until green eyes flitted open again, and green against blue, America felt England arch against him, even as he curled down to meet England halfway. They clumsily brushed faces – any part of their bodies, lips to cheek, brushing the nose with a messy kiss, and the curve of a throat (pulse fluttering in the neck like a flag in the wind) to eyelashes. Faces crashing gently into each other like butterflies, touching by chance, or sycamore speeds, spiraling into strange unified ballet. Messy, untidy, and poetic.

America threw his head back, almost audible with the speed, and gave a long, _long_ drawn-out cry, shuddering and shaking. Entire body jerking slowly with thorough, deep thrusts that fizzled into quick, breathy movements. The brief glitter of blue eyes, almost forcibly opened to meet England's eyes is – though England would never quite say it – exactly what tosses England right over the brink, and he's moaning, groaning, howling, keening, crying out, entire body all over the place, shaking and squirming, warmth splattering down between their stomachs, chest to chest and heartbeat to heartbeat.

Fingers sticky, they combed the hair out of each other's eyes, and America reluctantly pulled away from England. Feeling a few heartbeat short from the aching loss of _England_. He made up for it in quick, soft, strokes of England's face, kissing England on the nose more times than strictly necessary, and breathed deeply against England's collarbones; "Thank you."

"No problem, darling." Is the breathy reply, and America curled into a splayed, sloppy, and sugary ball on England's chest, kissing England once, twice over the heart and drifting into sleep with England's arms about his shoulders, and England twisting ever so slightly to kiss his forehead.

* * *

><p><strong>Enfin.<strong>


	3. BONUS

All works belong to their respective owners.

**Author's Note:** De-anon from Kinkmeme.

Oh Harry Potter.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Bonus.<strong>_

* * *

><p>The night creaked through the room, and America gave a half-yawn, rolling slightly the other way, and curling his arms about the pillow that England had very cunningly placed there. Meanwhile, England was scrambling all about the room in search of one of his shirts. Failing to find it, he picked up a stray of America's and pulled the oversized (too much, too much) button-up over his head, gave his hair a scruff, and carefully slipped downstairs and outside.<p>

Walking past the pool determinedly, England sized up the door of the sauna. It was dark, but not hot – no, instead the darkness lathered a slight chill on his bare legs, and with that in mind, he seized the door handle and wrenched it open. And there, on the bench where America had let them drop, are the two pieces of Texas.

Picking them up gently, England tapped them once with his second and third fingers, and murmured under his breath; "_Oculus repairo_."

A satisfied smile crept over his face as the glasses are repaired, and England clicked the sauna switch off – all but blushing at the energy wastage – and retreating back upstairs to the sleeping America. Perched the glasses on the bedside table, and forcibly wrestled the pillow away from the sleeping America, and curled America back across him, snuggled up to the warm just-right heat of America and settled down to get back to sleep.


End file.
